Wayward
by koienme
Summary: A lowly elven scribe, Roan escapes her chantry after the death of her mentor into the ranks of the Inquisition with the fervent hope she can finally find a place to belong. Instead, she finds herself enthralled in a dangerous game of espionage and death, reaching for solace in a familiar dream.


8 Ferventis, 9:41

This is wrong, writing this. I know this, but I cannot stop the quill from defacing this parchment any more than I can cease breathing. My mind is reeling, my hands shake so badly I fear I may spill the ink bottle across the desk.

He is dead. Thern is dead. My master, my teacher, my unwitting safeguard from the rest of them—is gone. Even now, I can feel them glowering at me through the walls. Nowhere is safe.

* * *

10 Ferventis, 9:41

Thern's funeral pyre finally lit, it won't be long now before the next Elder is chosen. For now, the revered mother presides over our work with practiced indifference. I do try to keep to myself, speak only when spoken to and such, but my very nature demands apprehension. Already I am finding it difficult to function among the brothers and sisters. Thern's absence is remarkable—how I took his presence for granted!

They suspect foul play, undoubtedly, despite the evidence to the contrary. Thern was old, blind, and sicker every month passing. That he passed peaceful in his sleep seems to be completely overlooked in favor of suspecting his odd elvhen attendant.

For now, I have to consider my options. Though I am sure they would be outwardly outraged at my sudden departure, few would readily admit anything need done. Leaving before any official fingers are pointed at me might be best.

But I am far from road worthy. It's been years since I last traveled, my body and hands soft from more than a decade of scribe work by candle light in the safe confines of this Chantry. I have known no pain here, no disease, no hunger, the everyday grievances at the hands of the other clerics being the only hardship outside the actual labor. Really, no labor at all, at least to me. My hands ache to find something to occupy them, even now.

Hence this forbidden journal, of sorts.

* * *

11 Ferventis, 9:41

News comes from the west—the Divine has called forth a great Conclave between the rebel mages and the errant Templars. There is much speculation and even more whispers of hope. Many here have families impacted by the conflict, if not directly affected themselves. To be able to return home, to walk outside the walls of this Chantry and leave Denerim forever—more than a few are swooning over the thought. Though they are devout, I think the younger affirmed would rather go back to their farmlands and resume their lives.

Chantry work is demanding, thankless, and unrewarded. I think few are truly called to it, most coming into it out of desperation. Like myself.

I wonder what this Conclave could mean for mages across Southern Thedas, what it meant for the Tranquil, and those caught in between. What does it mean for me?

* * *

15 Ferventis, 9:41

I stand ready to leave at anytime, waiting for opportunities.

The atmosphere in the library is unbearable. They bicker at each other out of pure nervous energy, my old Master's passing completely overridden by the excitement of more news from Haven. They scrabble over every scrap of gossip they can muster from the droppings of the revered mother's conversations with the curriers.

For now, it benefits me. I am able to work in the background without much disturbance. I still lack a proper plan, though, as well as means to accomplish it. I have no idea where I will go, what I will do. No one has need for an educated elf—and the Dalish wouldn't have me back, even if I asked.

And I would rather die than go back to the alienage.

So strange, that my life has taken me back here, to the Denerim Chantry, just a stone's throw away from the piss stain that is my childhood. I am not permitted to wander the city unescorted—but even if I were, no amount of curiosity would ever take my footsteps near that place.

* * *

17 Ferventis, 9:41

Looking at this map I pilfered from a discarded tome on Thesian geology, I am amazed that my adventures with the Dalish and otherwise have not been as far reaching as I thought. Ferelden is much bigger than I imagined.

I thought about going to another Chantry, someplace more remote. In more rural areas, the difference between humans and elves is less pronounced. At least in theory. Thinking back on my wandering after the Dalish, I never really did come in contact with human settlements, avoided them, in fact. Only the Blight could drive me back to their walls.

I have even thought about escaping to Haven. To the Conclave, and throw all of my hopes on one desperate, foolhardy attempt to grasp at whatever miracle happens there.

Haven is far—weeks away, over harsh terrain and uncertain roads still muddled by strife. My earnest desire to leave this place is dampened by the crushing realization I may very well die before I get anywhere.

But here is no longer safe. Eyes are drawn my way every time I enter a room, conversations stop.

Anytime now, they'll accuse me of something—anything—and the city guards will come, either to take me to the alienage or to the gallows.

* * *

18 Ferventis, 9:41

Of all the things!—the revered mother has selected me, of all the scribes, to attend her at the Conclave as one of her understudies.

I am riddled with conflicted emotions; shock, of course, but suspicion as well, and not a little joy. Dread, as well. My lofty plans to really leave this place manifested in front of me overnight.

We leave on the morrow, after the midday chant and before city gates are closed for the evening. I dare not question why, or how, the revered mother came to this unexpected decision.

All I can do now is pray, and hope that whatever I find at Haven be the answer I have sought for so long—a place to belong.


End file.
